Just west of old Ben Lomond, high and gray, a downy-heathered island on a loch did soak our feet before we rowed away for western shores, to find a little dock in Luss. A pot of tea to warm our bones, and meat pies, piping hot, our stomachs fill. Through graveyards did we walk, under the stones arched high, where crossbones warn all men of ill. Then we betook ourselves 'neath early stars and setting sun to bonny Balmaha where on the bank the ladies had begun to sing Loch Lomond's Banks; thus, filled with awe, we sat and listened to the last refrain echoing out o'er Lomond's glassy plain. J. David Graham lives with his wife and son in Charleston. As a student, he studies Classics and Creative Writing. He is also the poetry editor at Adversus Press, a magazine of Christian literature.